


Wincest Love Week; Summer 2016

by sweetheartdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, M/M, POV Outsider, Poetry, Pre-Stanford, Prison, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7192409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/pseuds/sweetheartdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of drabbles I wrote for <a href="http://wincestloveweek.tumblr.com/">Wincest Love Week</a> for the amazing <a href="https://buttheyrebrothers.tumblr.com/">buttheyarebrothers</a> :) A huge thank you to <a href="https://sexystripedtie.tumblr.com/">sexystripedtie</a> for all the unwavering support while I wrote these and help with the brainstorming <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Grown Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buttheyrebrothers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/gifts).



Sam’s all grown up. Baby brother’s got half an inch in height on Dean, and something tells Dean he might not be done yet. He’s trying for the whole independence thing hard, too. Don’t do this, don’t do that, and don’t tell me what to do, I can walk to the motel myself, thank you very much.

Dean loosens the reigns a little accordingly, only really insisting on crucial shit. If Sam wants to walk home like a dumbass when he could be riding shotgun in the coolest car in existence, it’s his own damn problem. Sam studies by himself and never needs Dean’s help anymore (hell, Dean never really got to the point where Sam is in his studies, opting for skipping class for hunting or working and eventually just getting a GED and the hell outta dodge). Sam gets salads these days instead of a burger and fries, ‘cause he wants to eat _healthy_ , you see. Sam wants to watch fucking nature documentaries, for fuck’s sake, and wrestles Dean for the remote. Sam sets all these new borders and rules and regulations and draws new lines across their no-man’s land of a relationship. Dean steps over the borders sometimes just to be met with missiles of a glare, ‘cause Sam’s damn protective of his boundaries.

Honest, it sucks. They used to do everything together, grow up hand in hand. Dean remembers holding baby Sammy in his arms clear as the day, Sam reaching up with his chubby hands and grasping Dean’s face.

Ain’t nothing chubby about Sammy anymore. Hell, he doesn’t even like being called Sammy. He’s all angles and bony knees that don’t ever need Dean’s band-aids anymore.

Sam’s so freaking smart. He’s read just about every book he could get his hands on, hungry for knowledge as much as he’s hungry for his stupid rabbit food. But thing is, all these books really haven’t taught the guy one damn crucial thing. There’s no way in hell Sam would ever stop being his lil’ Sammy. Chubby kid or sharp-edged teenager, or an adult someday, or, maybe, if they’re impossibly lucky, an old man, Dean’s always going to be running four years ahead, paving the road blindly and trying to lead Sam’s way around the potholes he’s stumbled on himself. Except that Sam, of course, insists on stepping into each and every one because he wants to make sure they’re there. Wants to feel them out with his own body and get his own bruises.

Dean’s fine with it as long as Sam doesn’t break his neck.

That day goes pretty much like any other when Dad’s away — breakfast, letting Sam stubbornly walk to school and back, making sure he ate at least his freaking salad, going to his part-time thing of a job (honestly, working counter in a gas-n-sip sucked ass, but, hey, extra cash never hurt anyone), coming home to Sam-shaped lump on the bed… fun times.

It sucked, living right next to each other and yet so freaking separate, like there was some kinda an invisible wall that ran between the two of them, a wall they built together while growing up. Sam’s arm is hanging off the edge of the bed, the fingers almost brushing the carpet. Dean watches him sleep for a second, watches his slightly-gaping mouth pull in steady breaths, his forehead creased with a dream-frown. He peels off his jacket, wet with the drizzle that managed to catch him on his way from Baby’s door to the motel’s, plops on his own bed and falls asleep instantly, as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Then, a few hours later, a crashing sound wakes him up. A thunderstorm roars outside. Dean blinks awake for a couple of seconds before burying his face in the pillow again. Whatever. Ain’t no storm taking away from his shut-eye time.

The bed shifts. A weight is right there next to him, and Dean’s whipping the gun out and pressing it against the intruder before he wakes up completely. He hears a grunt, and an annoyed yet flustered “it’s me”, and lowers his gun. 

“The hell are you doing? Almost shot your dumb ass,” Dean mumbles, hiding the gun back under the pillow. Sam has the dignity to look embarrassed, jolts up on Dean’s bed lightning-quick.

“I— It’s storming,” Sam mumbles before an actual lightning makes the room look bright as the day for a second. “I don’t, y’know— enjoy that much.”

Dean blinks in confusion, then it finally hits him. Right. Sam was scared of thunderstorms as a kid. They haven’t really been in any for a while, though. Dean thought Sam had just gotten over it somehow. Apparently, he’s been wrong.

“You’re scared?” Dean teases, rubbing at his eyes, and props himself up against the bed. Sam pouts and hesitates. “Holy shit, you are.”

“I’m not scared! Shut up, Dean. Just… what if it hits the motel, man?”

“It ain’t gonna.”

“What if it hits the motel and a fire starts?” Sam asks, voice shaking a little, and Dean understands it all. Hell, he himself isn’t too fond of fires when he’s not the one starting one during a salt-and-burn. That’s contained. Seeing house fires, flames ripping out of the windows and licking the house black-clean, still kind of fucks him up a little. Sam’s too young to remember, but at some level, he probably has the heat in the nursery the day it all fell apart stashed in his mind. Dean running away, Sam in his arms.

Dean kept him safe there, and he’s gonna keep him safe now. Sam’s face is moonlight-pale, Sam’s white-knuckling the edge of the blanket, and it’s kinda stupid to be scared of a storm when he’s so grown, when he’ve seen horrors much worse than a bit of a thunderbolt. But Dean doesn’t mind it too much.

He peels off the blanket wordlessly, and Sam catches on pretty soon. Dean held him through so many storms, wiped tears of fear off chubby blushy cheeks. Dean’s not holding him now, turned to his own side, shifted so that he’s all but falling off the edge. Sam cowers in his own corner, but he seems much calmer now that they’re sharing the bed.

Dean’s almost asleep when he hears a mumbled ‘thanks, jerk’. He isn’t completely sure if he dreamt it.

Funny, Dean kept Sam safe from monsters much scarier, things much deadlier. But Sam chooses to thank him now.

Dean finally rolls around to sneak a glance at Sam, blissfully asleep, face innocent and relaxed, shaggy hair swept across the pillow.

He’s a kid still.

His lil’ Sammy.

Just like it should be.

They gravitate to each other in the night like magnets. Dean’s almost not surprised by having his arms full of his baby brother the next morning.


	2. Pandora's Box

Working part-time after classes to be able to afford this matchbox of an apartment is so worth it.

First, there are no nosy roommates to deal with. No one to ask him why he leaves lines of salt behind every door and on windowsills, why he keeps holy water on him at all times, why he has a knife under the pillow, why there are symbols drawn on the walls. Sam might’ve left the life, but the life hadn’t left him, haunting him like an especially persistent spirit. It keeps him on edge, paranoid and nervous all the damn time. Especially without Dean around to cover his back if shit goes south. Nothing knocked at his door yet, though. Nothing went bump in the night now that he wasn’t looking for it.

The quiet unnerved him. So Sam didn’t let his place be quiet. He cranked up the music or the TV, and sometimes just talked to himself — he really should get a dog so he could talk to it instead. But for now, he lived paycheck to paycheck, and there was no way in hell Sam was gonna take in a dog without knowing he could give it good care for sure. So for now, the low murmur of a TV had to do.

There was another reason why living by himself was amazing, too. The privacy. Sure, he didn’t take any girls here. Sigils on the walls made the place look like a satanist’s lair, which would unnerve just about anyone, plus, he wasn’t into one night stands, not like Dean was. Is. It’s hard to think of Dean as an is, because Sam hasn’t seen the guy in about… two years, yes. Fuck. Might as well have been an eternity.

Sam missed him, ‘cause he did. Every damn day.

Dad told him never to return, though. And Dean didn’t say anything, and that stung way more than any of Dad’s words. A negative space where Dean’s protective words should have been.

It’s okay, though. Sam’s got a Pandora’s box, a time capsule of Dean he can break open anytime he likes. And sometimes, when Sam gets a free minute between essays and clocking out, he does just that. Settles down on his small bed (maybe not so small, but any bed is small when Sam’s concerned) and pulls out his scratched-up silver cell phone. Sam scrolls through the menu, accompanied by tiny beeps whenever he jams one of his phone’s tight keys, and presses play.

Dean’s voice is there, spread across all voicemails Sam had saved. There are more and more numbers in his phone these days, more calls and texts and voicemails from people that aren’t Dean and John, but Dean’s voicemails are the only ones he keeps. He deleted one by accident, a voicemail where Dean talked about the exact kind of pie Sam gotta buy, and spent the rest of the day with a stone-heavy feeling of loss in his stomach.

As soon as Dean’s voice pours into Sam’s ear, rough and hushed, Sam spreads his legs a little, planting his feet flat against the mattress. The temptation to dive right in is strong, but Sam teases himself at first, running his fingertips up the insides of his thighs torturously slow, ‘cause it’s what Dean would have done if they ever.

Of course, they wouldn’t. Dean wouldn’t. But Sam hadn’t seen him in a long enough while to fool himself. Could still conjure a Dean in his head anytime he wanted, though, long eyelashes, spiky hair and a splash of freckles scattered across his smooth skin. And if his memory ever lapsed, well, there were photos of Dean in his desk’s top drawer, worn-out by the time and how many times Sam pulled them out.

He didn’t need a refresher right now, though, an imaginary Dean smiling at him as soon as he closed his eyes, and the real has-been-Dean rambling in his ear.

“Sammy,” he says, and that’s enough for Sam’s brain to latch onto, to see Dean planting his legs on each side of him and looking down on him, eyes wide with a mix of nerves and excitement. Sam dips his fingertips below his briefs’ elastic waistband, gives himself a stroke. He’s already half-hard. “I know you don’t care because you don’t know good music if it hit ya, but I just got a new tape for the collection. Yeah, we’re listening to it tonight, and no, you’re not allowed to bitch about it, bitch.” There’s nothing sexy to the way Dean says ‘bitch’, it’s not drawled out or anything. It’s interspersed with his laugh, for fuck’s sake. But it’s good enough for Sam.

There’s a shuffling and then the next one plays. Sam wraps his fingers around himself properly at last. Dean in his mind slowly sinks down on his cock, magically prepped right there and then. Sam’s fantasy, Sam’s rules. Dean takes it all like a champ, gasping and moaning and grunting, sure, but soon enough Sam’s cock is buried to the hilt in imaginary Dean’s ass. Dean stays still to adjust.

Sam imagines different stuff each time. Sometimes Dean whispers sweet nothings in his ear, promises to take care of him. Sometimes they do it slow and gentle, sometimes fast and rough against the wall, Sam hands easily spanning Dean’s ass and holding him up. Today Dean is riding him.

“You won’t believe what just fucking happened. Some fucker just parked his fucking van right next to my Baby and knocked her mirror off. My baby!” Dean snarls, and that’s definitely sexy if Sam doesn’t listen to the words too hard. Sam can imagine himself being Dean’s decidedly non-mechanical baby.The imaginary Dean makes these low noises because Sam’s cock is a bit too much for his tight ass, but, of course, he still loves every second of it. “I’ll kill him, Sammy. No, first I’ll make him pay up for the repairs, and then I’ll kill him, nice and slow.”

Sam bites down on his lip before moaning in earnest. Imaginary Dean starts bouncing up and down eagerly, running his hands up his own body. He teases his left nipple until it stiffens, his right hand buried in his hair, and he’s the best thing Sam could have ever imagined. Freckles all over, too. Living in such close quarters gave Sam quite a lot of eyefuls for his spank bank material.

Dean rides a cock like he was born to do just that. No, not a cock, just his cock. In his fantasies, Dean can be just his. Sam squeezes his eyes shut even further so not to open them by accident, not to see his own fist pumping away.

The next track was one of his favorites. “Fuck,” Dean gasps out, and it’s because he’s been fighting and running, Sam knows that. “It jumped me, Sammy. It jumped me, but I’ve killed the sucker, and now I’m hauling ass because hell knows if there’s more of ‘em out there. Need backup. Call me back ASAP, dude.”

Dean’s panting through every word, and, coincidentally, that’s also what he does in Sam’s imagination. Sam did call him back. They torched the nest and saved the day. Dean’s eyes shine so pretty when he’s grinning victoriously.

God, Sam misses him even when he tells himself every morning that he doesn’t. And every night it starts anew, a phantom Dean-shaped ache drilling straight through his heart.

He feels bad about tarnishing the memories he has of his brother like this, but he can’t stop. It’s like a drug. Besides, these are just fantasies. And Dean’s far away. What he doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him.

Sam wishes for this so bad, for his eyes to open and for Dean to still be there. Dean’s rambling on and on in his ear about groceries. Sam imagines them being that comfortable around each other that they actually talk about doing grocery shopping while having sex.

Sam fucks up into his fist, hips lifting off the bed in a desperate chase for Dean’s invisible body. He’s barely listening to whatever voicemail-Dean was saying at this point, just having him talk was enough. Kept him grounded. He’s balls-deep in imaginary-Dean’s body, gripping his hips, thrusting up to meet Dean’s eager bouncing. Sam thumbs his tip, letting out a loud moan and then smoothly transitioned into a fuck-Dean-please—

And then he is coming, the orgasm hitting him hard, and Dean is talking still. It’s Sam’s turn to be gasping for air, arching off the bed again.

Dean vanishes into thin air before he gets to come, too.

Voice-Dean falls silent with a ‘bye, Sammy’.

It’s quiet again. Sam’s alone again.

He looks up into the ceiling until he can’t hear Dean’s voice anymore, until there’s no more freckle-shaped stars clouding his vision, and then goes to clean himself up.

He can’t close this Pandora’s box, try as he might.

Sometimes, Sam doesn’t even want to try.


	3. Cherry-flavored pretty boy

Sam’s blush-pretty, Sam’s thirty-four flavors of sin sprawled across the motel bed. The AC in the only motel in town gave in, and it’s the weekend. Dean half-heartedly suggested driving a town over, but the monster ripping people into shreds ‘round these parts doesn’t take days off, and every night spent away could mean more people they couldn’t save.

For now there’s nothing to do but research. It’s hard to concentrate with the heat pressing deep into his shoulders, though. When a bead of sweat drops off his forehead right onto the middle of the page Dean’s been trying to read, he gives up on the whole research thing for now and snaps it shut. He looks over at Sam who’s busy deep-throating a popsicle while scrolling on the trackpad of his laptop with two long fingers. Dirty fucking multitasker. He is stripped down to his underwear ‘cause of heat, too, and that does absolutely nothing to lessen the levels of Dean’s lust (off the charts, but what else is new when Sam’s involved).

Dean gets off the creaky chair and crawls onto the bed, putting on his Sunday best of lewd smiles. Sam rolls his eyes.

“It’s hot, Dean,” he sighs.

“Yeah, it is,” Dean agrees, eyes transfixed on the spot in the corner of Sam’s cherry-bright red mouth where the popsicle melted and dripped like paint.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. We’ll be only hotter and sweatier if we do something,” Sam dons one of his trademark bitchfaces. To an uninformed observer, they would all look the same, but Dean can always read the undertones. The corners of Sam’s mouth are turned up ever so slightly, and that means Dean can press on. If he frowned just a little more, that would mean stop or else.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll be hot and sweaty,” Dean repeats, making sure to twist it on his tongue to make the words sound extra dirty. “But there’s always a cold shower to whip us back into shape, right?”

Sam gives him a long, contemplative look before groaning. “Fine. But I’m not moving. You want to get it on in this heat so bad? You better do all the work.”

“Fine by me,” Dean murmurs. He leans in to kiss Sam’s pretty, petulant mouth, bracing himself against the bed. Sam puts the laptop on the bedside table hastily as soon as they break away. Dean gets it. If Baby was in bed with ‘em and in danger of getting crushed by someone’s knee, he’d try to get her safe ASAP, too.

Kinda sucks that they’re both so huge (not in that way, that doesn’t suck). Getting it on in the backseat would be fucking impractical, if not downright impossible. Well, there’s always road head and bending Sam over the hood.

Then Sam kisses Dean again, impatient — ha, Dean fucking knew Sam wanted it as bad as he did — and Dean gets all distracted real quick by the wet things Sam does with his lips and his tongue. He sucks the cherry flavor right outta Sam’s mouth.Sam offers him a lick of the real thing, too, since he’s still clutching it in his right hand. They take turns with it before going at it together, Sam’s tongue brushing against Dean’s along the cold cherry every so often. Dean grasps the underside of Sam’s chin and licks a fat stripe along the corner of his mouth, gathering even more of the cherry taste on his tongue. It’s not that good, actually, just a cheap ice cream from a mom-and-pop kinda store, but hell if it doesn’t taste like fucking heaven right now.

Dean palms Sam over the fabric of his briefs, smirking when he finds Sam half-hard. He bends over the edge of the bed to pull his duffle closer and, after rummaging for a short while, he finds one of their fed ties.

“Mouth open,” Dean commands, and Sam’s jaw drops immediately. Dean takes what’s left of the popsicle and stuffs it in Sam’s mouth as a makeshift gag. Sam makes an indignant noise, but doesn’t pull it out or show their nonverbal stop-signal, so Dean takes it as a go ahead sign. He yanks Sam’s hands to the headboard and ties the wrist down with the red tie loosely. Sam’s giving him another unimpressed glance.

“Hey, you said it yourself, you just wanna lie back and think of England,” Dean teases before settling down between Sam’s legs. Sam’s stretched mouth drips more artificial red, and he looks fucking sinful, hair swept up, and eyes lust-dark. “Ask, Sammy, and ye shall receive.”

Sam makes a throaty noise against the flavored ice as soon as Dean’s lips wrap around the tip. He mouths at it, starting slow, but Sam’s impatient, muffled noises spur him on to dive a little deeper. The taste of cherry mixes with the familiar taste of Sam, and it’s a great fucking cocktail right there.

Dean can vaguely hear Sam’s fingers scraping against the headboard, too. Knows Sam wants to slide his hand in his hair and guide him until he almost chokes. Knows that the tie that’s holding him back is a frustrating turn-on. Dean knows Sam, he mapped his body with his hands and mapped his mind with years and years of growing up side by side in the car’s backseat like weeds — something resilient that no one really cared about, growing in spite and not because.

And he knows how to take Sam apart, too, with his lips or his fingers or his cock. So Dean puts all of his knowledge to good use. He dives in with slurping, wet noises, and wraps his hand around the part not currently stuffing his mouth. Sam whine-moans, throws his head back and shuts his eyes, a little bit more of red dripping off his messy chin and on his chest. Dean hums around Sam’s cock and holds his hip down when Sam tries to buck up.

“Easy, tiger,” Dean grins, lifting his head. “Wouldn’t be fun if I let you blow your load straightaway, would it?”

Sam nods reluctantly, and he looks like the prettiest debauched mess Dean had ever laid eyes on, his eyelashes dark and fluttering, his mouth a bright sugary red and his skin glossy with a sweaty sheen (and Dean supposes it’s not just the heat that’s to blame).

Dean leans up and reaches out to swipe his thumb across Sam’s chest, picking up some of the red there. “Dirty boy,” he chastises before licking his finger clean. Sam lets a loud breath through his mouth, clearly desperate. Dean gives him a cocky grin before going back. He lets the tip, shiny with precome, into his mouth once again before diving down, letting an inch after inch in.

Dean sucks in earnest now to the beat of Sam’s moans. Sam digs his heels into the mattress. His hips twitch time and time again. Damn, Dean knows exactly what that means — Sam’s close. And so he throws his head back slightly to swirl his tongue against the tip again.

Somewhere around this time the popsicle stick drops out of Sam’s mouth, the ice all melted down his mouth and body. Sam’s breathing’s coming in jagged pants, and Dean licks and sucks eagerly until Sam arches with a weak cry. Dean swallows, but a few drops get away from him, trickle across his lips and down his face.

“Who’s a dirty boy now, huh?” Sam laughs languidly as Dean undoes the tie’s knot. It’s just for show, Sam could easily get out if he wanted. But there’s something cathartic about doing this. Sam probably understands it without Dean having to voice it, and so he lets him do this every time Dean introduces a lil’ bondage into their bedroom games.

“Can’t hear you over how fast you came. What are you, a teenager?” Dean teases, wiping the come-drool mix off his chin with the back of his wrist. “Or maybe I’m that good.”

“Shuddup. C’mon, let’s take a shower. I’m all fucking sticky now. And sweet.”

“Guess I poured some sugar on ya,” Dean chortles, earning himself an exasperated head-shake from Sam.

“Anyway. Bet I can make you come even faster in the shower,” Sam peels the popsicle stick off his body and throws it straight into the trashcan across the room.

“That a promise? Better put your mouth where your money is, Sammy.” Sam beckons with his finger, and Dean moves closer immediately.

“You bet your ass I will,” Sam murmurs before kissing him once again, cherry-sweet and hot.


	4. love and leave are a before and after of the same word

god, only you can fuck me up like that.

went to get a couple bottles of coke from the store next door,  
worn-out sneakers beating against the pavement with every stubborn step,  
and i’m left looking at the empty passenger’s seat without you slumped in it.  
and i think, yeah, that’s what it’s gonna be like  
for the rest of my goddamn life! —  
the only dish served’s gonna be a road running for miles and miles and miles with a side of a no one to share it with.  
the letter in your duffle burns hotter than this heavy summer, hotter than the hellfire i’m gonna burn in for loving you too much.  
i’m gonna be dropping my own duffle on the floor and sleeping alone and eating alone and drinking — oh, fuck, so much drinking — alone.   
i say no, but you say yes, and your word goes for so much more than mine these days;  
and with each hour our expiration date grows closer,  
a countdown to when you walk victorious into september and i crash into it.  
wish this summer could freeze-frame, but you’d find your way out anyway,  
been looking for an exit off the hunting freeway all your life,   
hell, you’d ram the car over the edge of a cliff if that meant an out.  
maybe that’s why i don’t say anything and silently take the glass bottle you offer to me.  
manage to drop it, though;  
it doesn’t shatter when it crashes.  
i know i will.   
you leave for five minutes, i’m already in fucking tatters. you leave for the rest of my life, sam, what do you think’s gonna happen?   
the one good thing about this is that you won’t have to see me fall apart. that ain’t a sight for your eyes, ever. 

i smile, a sammy-special. get ‘em while they’re still on the menu.

i silently wait for the nighttime slick-and-slide of your fingers, an apologetic fuck-me-in-the-matress.

sammy, i’d only ever let you fuck me like that. (sammy and god are one and the same in my language.)

but this is our last call.

come first frost, there ain’t gonna be us anymore.


	5. it’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock ‘n’ roll

Ryan Chadsey became a fed eight months ago. It sounded pretty badass on paper, not to mention the rigorous Quantico-based training. But nothing crushes a guy’s fragile dreams like the muddy heavy-duty boot of reality. Since he was a rookie, he got stuck with the most boring assignments, time and time again. Heaps of paperwork that higher-ranking agents were all too busy to do. Bringing coffee to his boss, like he was a plucky secretary rather than a trained agent. And now, combing through hours and hours of footage which might have some information on the guys his boss, agent Henricksen, was hunting down right now. Henricksen got obsessed with his cases, never resting until they caught the sucker — and he wouldn’t let his team rest, either. So that’s why Ryan is stuck with a huge mug of coffee in front of a blue screen.

Stuck at the office, late on a Thursday. But that’s alright. Now that his boyfriend had decided to call it quits, no one’s waiting around for Ryan except for his pet hamster Wanda, and Wanda could wait a little. She’ll understand Ryan was working hard for his promotion. The paperwork is filed on time, the coffee’s made thoroughly (and sometimes he even runs out to the nearby Starbucks) and he isn’t leaving until he finds a lead on the Winchester brothers case.

Ryan saw glossy photos of their victims. Torn to shreds and chopped into pieces and strangled to death and burned to crisp, the kind of gore that made him want to empty his stomach. Ryan wonders if he’ll get used to seeing these kinds of things eventually. If it’ll become normal for him. If he’ll be able to stuff his face with a sandwich while looking through files like other agents. Or if this nausea won’t ever go away. Both ideas scare him.

He boots up the computer and starts the first disk of footage from Green County Detention Center, from the time when the law finally nailed the Winchesters and then let ‘em give everyone the slip. Then again, these two were good. It’s gonna be all the more satisfying when they do get ‘em. 

The first few disks don’t show anything too interesting. Orange-jumpsuit-clad Sam and Dean Winchester eat, sleep and talk like normal human beings. Sam seems to be pissed off about being there. Dean plays cards, wins a few packs of cigs and exchanges them for lube. It’s actually weird to think they’re grade A serial killers. If Ryan saw one of them on the street, he’d never suspect what kind of monsters lurk right beneath the candy-pretty wrapper. The body count behind the cocky grins and wide eyes. What the hell can drive a person to do such depraved things? Did the older brother start it up and the younger followed? Did their father teach them to dismember people? Ryan doesn’t know. He isn’t sure that he wants to know, to find out the horrors that led them to this life.

Or maybe, they were born fucked up.

It’s the disk number four that spikes Ryan’s interest. Sam and Dean make their way into the part of the prison’s building which isn’t watched 24/7. There’s a camera, sure, but it’s not manned. There’s a fat chance anyone’s gonna be escaping from this corner unless they’ve got a jackhammer baked into their bread instead of a nail file. And the prison, is, apparently, suffering budget cuts.

They seem to know that they’re alone, too. There’s no sound (budget cuts strike again), but the conversation seems private, Sam leaning on the wall next to Dean and talking to him, the words clearly hushed judging by the way his lips move. Throughout all the footage Ryan never saw Dean look so relaxed, though. His eyes go soft, too, and he trails a hand over the buttons of Sam’s jumpsuit, murmuring something. Sam’s gentle smile grows hungrier and he crowds Dean, placing his hands on the either side of his head. The blinking timestamp in the corner of the video shows it’s barely a minute later when Sam grasps the orange fabric and slams his brother against the concrete wall. For a second, Ryan thinks he misjudged the quiet of situation and thinks they’re gonna fight. But then they…

Ryan sits up in his chair, shell-shocked as the two figures on the screen press real close — kissing distance, that is. And then they’re definitely making out, kiss starting chaste, but quickly going from zero to eighty. Ryan hits the space bar, hard, making the video freeze. The quality may be grainy, but what’s going on is undeniable.

He reaches out for the thick manila folder for the Winchester case, or case #306-COL-205. He flips open to the DNA page. Henricksen made sure it got run through every test possible out there. Yeah, here, DNA’s a fifty percent match. Like any normal siblings. 

Ryan lowers the folder. Well, normal is definitely stretching it. This isn’t anywhere near normal, the way the older brother’s arms are wrapped around the younger, like he’s the one last lifeline. The way they’re pressed against each other.

It shouldn’t surprise him so much. They’re depraved killers. But even for them, it’s a new low, he supposes.

Ryan probably should report that find to Henrickson. The boss’ still at the office, working the night away. But, maybe, before he does, he could watch some more. Maybe there’s something bigger in this video to nudge him to an even bigger discovery. Bringing the Winchesters to his boss on a golden platter? His career will propel.

So Ryan presses play again, and holds his breath.

They pick up where the pause left them off. Dean yanks Sam’s collar aside and goes to town on his neck, a sloppy mess of bruising kisses. Even from here, Ryan can see how passionate they are. And, yet, there’s an ease to their movements that clearly indicates they’ve been doing this for a long damn while. You don’t get this kinda finesse with a new partner. Well, makes sense. They grew up together. Probably started this thing pretty early on.

And yet, they’re so fervent with each other. Holy shit, Ryan’s a little jealous. He’s never had that, the passion and the ease at the same time. He’s only jealous about this part, not the whole incest-and-murder part, though. Maybe you can’t have one without the other?

Meanwhile, Sam hikes Dean up against that wall, and Dean instantly wraps his legs around Sam’s waist, ‘cause they’re doing this like a well-practiced dance. That’s probably how they corner their victims, as well. Soon enough, the jumpsuits are being undone in a flurry of frantic more-more-more hand movements, and maybe Ryan oughta stop breathing so hard.

He shakes his head, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. But nothing seems to work as the action on the screen heats up. The lube comes out, and then Sam’s long fingers are screwing into Dean — the camera angle obstructs the view, but the way Dean throws his head back in what clearly is a loud moan makes it pretty damn clear what’s happening. Dean grinds back on the fingers, and Ryan holds his breath before realizing he managed to get rock hard.

He sneaks a glance on his door before undoing his pants. God, this is the stupidest thing he’s ever done, including that time when he tried to do a skateboard flip the second time he ever stood on one to impress a cute classmate (and ended up with a concussion). But no one was in the building, except for the big boss, and the big boss never came up to check on him or anything that late.

The figures on the screen are killers.

Hell, what worse, they are brothers.

And he’s never been in or seen anything hotter, so, probably, he’s going to Hell together with them. No one has to know right now, though. No one will find out.

Ryan thumbs his leaking tip and glances back at the screen. Sam finally spread Dean open enough to slide right home. Dean gasps, shudders and moans, his legs swaying in the air as Sam’s hands squeeze the globes of his ass. God, Ryan’s so pissed this doesn’t have sound. Dean arches and bites down on his lip when Sam says something to him — probably about keeping quiet, and then Sam decides it’s not good enough and makes Dean press his own hand over his mouth. Dean clearly whimpers through his fingers. Sam starts rocking in earnest, hips pistoning relentlessly, and, honestly, Ryan doesn’t know which one he’d rather be, if he’d wanna mercilessly fuck up into Dean, tight and hot, as Dean begged for more, or if he’d wanted to be at Sam’s mercy, getting nailed against a dirty prison wall and feeling on top of the damn world.

But all he can do is jerk off. He spreads the pre-come over his shaft and stifles a moan of his own as his fist pumps to the beat of Sam’s thrusts. Dean’s not-so-small frame is jerking up and down the wall with Sam’s efforts, and, clearly, they are having the time of their damn lives.

Finally, Sam stills, burying his head in the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean grasps at his back frantically. What, they could come at the same time, too? Fuckers. Ryan almost never managed to pull this trick with his partners. Someone always blows their load much sooner than the other and it got awkward. Not them, though.

Ryan’s own wrist motions turn faster and faster as he teeters straight on that brink. Sam helps Dean down, Dean rolls his eyes, teasingly shoving at Sam. They both do up their jumpsuit’s buttons, and Dean straightens out Sam’s sexed-up hair with an endeared grin.

Sam leaves first, step firm and confident. Dean follows, and he doesn’t walk like a guy who just got so wrecked, either. Gotta have some crazy high pain tolerance.

Dean turns around just before he leaves the camera’s field of vision, and winks up at it with a wide cocky grin playing on his lips.

Ryan comes, messy and sloppy.

Dean salutes the camera before walking away.

As Ryan scrambles for baby wipes, he thinks that, maybe, just maybe, something happened to the disk number four from the case #306-COL-205.

After all, evidence is full of rookies who lose shit all the time.

The way their bodies moved, like a well-oiled machine, and that hungry look in their eyes is gonna haunt him in both wet dreams and nightmares. 

Ryan looks forwards to both.


End file.
